


In a Little Spanish Town

by Somber_Resplendence



Category: Buster Keaton - Fandom
Genre: Buster Keaton - Freeform, Comedy, F/M, pantomime, sappy love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:29:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5836207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somber_Resplendence/pseuds/Somber_Resplendence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a beautiful girl catches the eye of silent film comedian, Buster Keaton, he decides to pen her a letter about the first time he saw her in that little Spanish town and is caught up in another adventure trying to deliver the love note to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Little Spanish Town

The girl was stunning. She had always been so, and every morning as she left the lamp shop, she'd smooth down her white dress and fix her dark curls in the reflection of the window before disappearing into town. And Buster, a lone shop boy who ran the market across the street, was terribly, hopelessly, and desperately in love with her. And he hadn't even met her.

He'd watch her from the shop window, peering through the small gaps of the bold, black letters upon the glass, "Keaton's Market." It was a shabby place, handed down to him from his father, and though it was a successful business, he never missed the opportunity to race to the window every morning and watch the girl as she left the old lamp shop. And rather than sweeping the dusty floors, stocking the products, or tending to the customers, he'd slouch upon the counter and gaze out of the window, waiting for the girl to return from town.

His customers despised it, even grumbled a few rude remarks under their breath, for they couldn't understand how love struck he was. Once the clock struck nine, he'd race to the front door and flip over the open sign to closed, and he'd proudly nod his head at all the customers who had hoped to make it into his shop before closing hours, for he hadn't wanted to miss the chance to watch the girl return to the lamp shop every night.

Propped up upon the counter, lazily gazing at her as she fought against a light breeze that stirred her dress upon walking back to the lamp shop, he escaped into his thoughts, sighed over her beauty and imagined that she'd call him her own. And then something worthwhile entered his mind and he jumped to his feet. Quickly, he searched about, rummaged through some drawers, and retrieved a pen and paper.

He twirled the pen about his fingers, paced the shop a couple of times, and even sat before the window for a few hours, wondering of what to say. He thought of speaking of her beauty, of her raven curls, dark eyes, and ruby-red lips, but found that no words could express such a thing and grew frustrated. And as he trudged back to the counter, passing under a single moonbeam that seeped in through the window, a memory ensnared him and he raced for the pen.

_In a little Spanish town, 'twas on a night like this._

_Stars were peek-a-booing down, 'twas on a night like this._

_I whispered be true to me, and you sighed, "si, si."_

_Many skies have turned to grey because we're far apart._

_Many moons have passed away and still you're in my heart._

_We made a promise and sealed it with a kiss,_

_In a little Spanish town, 'twas on a night like this._

Satisfied, he signed his name and folded the paper in half, quietly mumbling to himself about how he'd have to find the strength to hand it over to the mail man tomorrow morning. Yet, at the thought of gazing out of the window and watching her read his love letter, describing the time he had first seen her that night in that little Spanish town, he felt at ease.

Dawn approached and Buster found himself leaning upon the counter, staring out of the window with half-lidded eyes as the girl headed into town. She was in an awful hurry, struggled to run in her white heels, and he wondered why.

"Wake up, boy," said an older woman whose deep voice shook Buster's core and woke him from his imaginings. She was the landlady who lived next door, a large thing with deep wrinkles and biddy eyes that appeared to be like two black marbles that had been stuffed into a lump of dough. Frowning, she crossed her arms atop her large bosom, waiting for him to ring up her morning groceries. However, in his mind, his hands were not shuffling with the sack of potatoes she ordered, but offering a bouquet of daises to the girl he had gazed upon one too many times. And he happily sighed, summoning a scowl from the older woman.

Upon a jingle from the bell above the shop door, he paused and glanced up with the anticipation that today was the day she'd enter his shop.

"Good morning," he said, catching the eye of the mail man who had dropped by with a cheerful smile and a wave.

"Have any mail?" he asked.

Buster winced, though he had anticipated handing over the letter, he hadn't the courage. He shrugged his shoulders and attempted to keep a hold of the heavy sack of potatoes in his hands, and somewhere in the pit of his gut he wondered if he would have surrendered the ever persistent love note, which was steadily growing heavier in his pocket, to the mail man had his hands not have been full. Either way, the landlady, who had yet to soften her frown, did not help his plight.

"Pathetic," she muttered, rolling her biddy eyes. "Hurry up with those groceries, boy. I haven't' all morning."

He acted upon her words, shuffled about with the large sack of potatoes and tried to ignore the heavy weight in his pocket and the patient glare of the mail man who hadn't the time to linger a moment longer. And upon his departure, Buster threw himself atop the counter, nearly knocking over a couple of milk bottles, and yelped in desperation, "Wait!"

"Careful with that milk, boy," snapped the landlady, widening her tiny eyes. Buster choked. He fumbled with the clanking bottles, managed to retrieve the letter and slapped it down upon the counter, and all awhile, the mail man stared at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Are you alright?" he asked, slowly stepping back into the shop.

"Never mind him," the landlady replied, "Now, my groceries—hurry up." She snapped her fingers and brought his attention back to the pile of veggies and fruits atop the counter, and like a madman, he sorted through them: a box of strawberries, a few bottles of milk, a bundle of parsley, and a vine of grapes. And upon shuffling the last item into her bag, she scoffed, paid, and promptly left, snatching her bags from his flimsy arms and storming past the mail man.

"I've a letter for you to send," said Buster, thankful that the mailman hadn't left, "it's for the girl I'm going to marry."

"Oh, well that's real swell."

Buster nodded in agreement, glanced down at the counter, and found that there was no letter. Distraught, he turned out his pockets and sighed.

"It's not here," he said, fighting to remember where he left it, although all that was on his mind were bottles of milk and a vine of grapes.

"That's alright," said the mail man. "You'll find it, and when you do, let me know. Good day." He tipped his hat and left, briskly passing by the landlady who no longer stomped about but walked leisurely and softly giggled to herself. He tipped his hat to her and saw that a letter was tightly clutched in her hands, one that had been tucked away in her grocery bag, next to a vine of grapes. However, Buster, snatching another piece of paper and penning familiar words, grieved over his mistake of losing his most utmost affectionate prose.

The bell above the shop door jingled and he hadn't the slightest care to glance up, not while he was busy inking his adoration. Yet, at the sound of a soft voice tickling his ears, he lifted his eyes to meet those of hers.

"Eggs?" she asked, kindly smiling at him and twirling her fingers about the woven basket she held. He remained silent for quite some time, attempted to hunch over the counter and hide the sloppy love letter before him in hopes that she wouldn't witness his desperation, and instead swiped the letter off of the counter, leaving it to gently float to the floor.

"Oh yes," he responded, "they're in the back." He pointed a shaky finger in the right direction and instantly shoved his hands in his pockets, unnerved that she'd unravel him. Nevertheless, he watched her, propped his elbow atop the counter and rested his face in his hand until the jingle of the bell shook him and his chin fell with a thud.

"Buster, my boy!" the landlady cried from the door with open arms. She wore a smile upon her wrinkled face and neared him for a tight embrace. And though he tried to squirm out of her arms, assuming that he was being punished or upsetting her earlier, he found that she was much stronger than him.

"I'll be your Spanish girl," she squealed, summoning Buster to grow pale.

"No, you don't understand," he tried to exclaim, but she hadn't the time and interrupted him with a another tight squeeze,

"Hush, boy. I understand perfectly. That was why you were so fidgety this morning. Oh my!"

Nearly crushed, he squirmed in her arms once more in an attempt to evade her, but her grip was as strong as the love-struck feelings he had poured into his letter, and before he could manage another word, the girl in the white dress returned from the back with a basket full of eggs.

The landlady frowned, "You've a customer. After all, I don't want a slacker for a man." She shoved him away and crossed to the door, making sure to glance back over her shoulder and wink at the boy before leaving.

"Oh, she's only my landlady," Buster said, taking to the register. But the girl said nothing, merely smiled and nodded. And due to her kindness, her understanding of his plight, he wondered if he should snatch the letter from the floor and give it to her. However, he thought better of it, left it to remain on the ground where his heart later joined it as she took her basket of eggs and left.

He was hopeless.

The afternoon entered his shop and he yawned as he gazed out of the window, watching the lamp shop, wondering when the girl would return; and luckily bravery was waltzing down the street and entered his shop too. Buster snatched a new, fresh piece of paper, one that hadn't been trampled upon by his clumsy feet, and inked the very same words he had already written twice before. Folding the letter, he slipped it into his pocket, slapped on his hat, and strolled over to the lamp shop across the street.

He straightened up, puffed out his chest, and knocked. But it was not her who answered, but a very tall man, though Buster was not deterred. With a stern look, he handed the letter to the man and proudly crossed his arms.

"Deliver this to the young lady who lives here," he said. The man groaned and took the letter before glancing up at the small room that sat atop the lamp shop.

"No," he said, ripping the note in half and shutting the door.

Buster frowned, attempted to knock upon the door again, unafraid of the towering man who lingered inside, but a small noise caught his ear and in curiosity, he turned and caught sight of two men rummaging in his shop. And they hadn't the decency to hide their crime.

He ran after them, and upon his nearing footsteps, they moved faster, struggling to take all that they could fit in their arms. But they weren't fast enough. He intruded into their crime and caught them before they could round the block. He put up his fists, steadied his feet, and demanded they put everything back.

And they laughed. In fact, they laughed so hard that they nearly wanted to return the things out of pity for the poor dope. But they didn't. They pushed past his small frame and continued to laugh as they rounded the corner. However, Buster was no quitter; he was a feisty little thing. He snatched one by the collar and swung his arm and found himself in a hospital an hour later.

"Black and blue," a nurse said, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth "two broken ribs, a busted lip, and a bloody nose." She shook her head, pitying the two battered men who lay dumbfounded on their beds.

"You really pummeled 'em, didn't you?" she asked, eyeing Buster who nonchalantly nodded as he sat in the waiting room outside with his hat clutched tightly in his sore hands. The two men from inside the room groaned and before Buster could collect himself and stroll out, he caught sight of her.

Wearing her white dress and tending to a man in a wheelchair, he watched her just as he always had from his window. And he, feeling big and brave, having just taken down two robbers, approached her and tapped a finger upon her shoulder.

She instantly smiled, recognizing the shop boy and he gulped. He reached into his pocket for the letter and—it was gone. Inwardly sighing, he remembered the man at the lamp shop who had ripped it half and he grew ashamed. But the girl held her smile, waiting for him to say something. And he did.

He looked at her, took her hands, and recited the words he had come to know so well:

_"In a little Spanish town, 'twas on a night like this._

_Stars were peek-a-booing down, 'twas on a night like this._

_I whispered be true to me, and you sighed, "si, si."_

_Many skies have turned to grey because we're far apart._

_Many moons have passed away and still you're in my heart._

_We made a promise and sealed it with a kiss,_

_In a little Spanish town, 'twas on a night like this."_

He beamed at her with his head held high and his chest puffed out. He did it. However, her smile faded; the corners drooped and melted into a straight line. She let go of his hands and stared at the checkered, tile floor before lifting her eyes to him and furrowing her brows,

"Yo no hablo Inglés, señor.

And he sighed. The girl was stunning.


End file.
